AN INVITATION arrives from public landowner Storas Uibhist to the reopening of the Old Course at Askernish on South Uist, and they are offering free digs and a bash at the lodge.
I accept right away. But where’s this lodge? Oh no. They must think I am a masonic funny handshaker. What will they do when they find out that I am not one of the rolled-up-trouser-leg brigade? Will they think a journalist has deliberately infiltrated them?
But it is Grogarry Lodge, the magnificent old pile that came as part of the deal when the islanders bought out South Uist Estates for £4.5million nearly two years ago. It costs only £7,000 to book it for a week. And I’m invited. No black balls for me there, then.
It’s Wednesday night, so I’m preparing for the trip. Plenty of pants and pyjamas are packed. Better put fuel in the car, as I am driving down early in the morning. Pull into Manor Filling Station and fill up with unleaded as usual. There we are. It took £63-worth. Wait . . .
Aaaaargh. What have I done? This car is a diesel. Just got it a few days ago. I forgot. Allan Macdonald in the filling station is sympathetic, but what can he do? It is 9pm. No garages are open. I have to catch the ferry to Berneray at 8.30 in the morning.
A passing stand-up comedian spots my angst and offers his help. Billy Matheson, otherwise known as Mac a’ Noonoo when he is not writing Gaelic comedies, gives me a lift home so I can fret properly there and hear again from the missus how I am obviously going completely gaga and losing it big style.
Who can I call for help? Superman? Batman? No. This is one for . . . Cameraman. He is going to Uist, too. Cameraman knows about cars and engines and oily kinds of stuff. He finds bits for a makeshift fuel-extraction kit and sucks away. Retching as he swallows mouthfuls of my unleaded and diesel mix, I decide not to charge him for that. Well, fuel is so expensive in Stornoway. He siphons and sucks enough for me to put in a further £50-worth of diesel just before they close. My thanks to all the Samaritans.
With Cameraman still green-gilled from petroleum poisoning, we dash to the ferry. The exquisite Bella Cameron welcomes us at the lodge. She’s the housekeeper and has been there a while. About 37 years, in fact. She doesn’t quite whisper “we have been expecting you”, like in spooky films set in big houses, but she does instantly work out who I am. Spooky.
Guests are arriving for the evening’s bash. A twinkling Father Michael is busy meeting and greeting. Storas chairman Angus MacMillan is talking to himself. Has he had too many already? No, just rehearsin
g his speech. On show tonight will be Uist’s great and good. Brilliant piping and fiddling by the youngsters keep spirits high.
Golfers from Stornoway are to the fore. Careers officer Ken Galloway is telling people what to do with their lives; council housing man Sandy Bruce is being very accommodating, and I also spot lawyer Ken Macdonald, briefly. You can guess what Norrie Macdonald from TalkTalk is doing.
Yet there is just something about them that I have never encountered before in the golfing fraternity. I look into their eyes; in Sandy’s case, all four of them. Ah, I’ve got it. Nearly eight o’clock and they are all perfectly sober – incredible.
A cracking night it is. Several fingers of a particularly flavoursome malt are persistently squished into my glass by waiters Alana MacInnes and Tony MacNeil. Utterly professional they are.
Note to his wife: Having had just enough to rinse his still-oily palate, Cameraman is sensible and retires even before I do.
At Askernish, even more Uibhisteachs converge to see guest of honour Kenny Dalglish doing the honours at the Old Tom Morris course. Making journalists look even dumber than we are is his hobby. Expecting him to explain the lure of the islands, I ask why he is here. He mutters about how he just got on a plane and it came to Benbecula. Take Two and I try to ignore my own red face to ask something more sensible and he’s off yapping. Even more than Norrie Macdonald.
Before we leave Grogarry Lodge, we have breakfast. Suddenly, Bella appears. She asks Cameraman if he had seen a “bocan” at all. He turns to me, bewildered. I shrug and assure him I kept my pyjamas on all night.
Fellow breakfaster Donnie Morrison, of Hebrides.net, seems alarmed at this turn in the conversation. Mercifully, I remember just in time that “bocan” is just the Uist Gaelic word for ghost. Phew.
Published in the Press and Journal on August 27, 2008
